98: Chapter 98 The Godfather's Funeral

On a rainy night on Long Island, even the air felt viscous.

The Gambino estate was brightly lit.

Dozens of black Cadillacs and Mercedes were parked on the carpet-like manicured lawn, and there were even two police cars maintaining order at the intersection.

This was the foundation of an old-school family; even at a time when the IRS had investigated them until they had nothing left, they could still host this birthday banquet as if it were a royal coronation.

Soothing jazz flowed through the banquet hall.

Waiters in tailcoats wove through the crowd carrying champagne, men puffed on Cuban cigars while discussing horse racing and politics, and women flaunted the diamonds around their necks.

No one mentioned the pizza shop that had been raided yesterday, nor did anyone mention the star enforcer, Mad Dog Tony, who had been missing for the entire day.

This was decency.

That was, until the man wearing a white mask pushed open those heavy oak doors.

"Creak—"

The sound of the doors opening was jarringly loud in the intervals of the jazz music.

All eyes focused on the doorway.

The man wore a well-tailored black suit with a white rose pinned to his chest.

He wore an expressionless white mask on his face, revealing only a pair of pitch-black eyes.

In his right hand, he carried an exquisite gift box that was still dripping, and his left hand was tucked into his trouser pocket, looking like a magician who had wandered onto the wrong set.

Following behind him was a young man wearing an ill-fitting suit, his legs trembling.

Richie felt like he was about to wet his pants; he gripped the corner of his clothes tightly, wishing he could find a crack in the ground to crawl into.

"Who are you?"

The two burly men in charge of security immediately surrounded him, their hands already reaching into their jackets.

"A guest."

Chen Mo's voice, filtered through the mask, sounded muffled, yet it carried an unquestionable chill.

"I think Mr. Gambino will be very happy to see me. After all, I've returned his lost dog."

He tossed the gift box in his hand to one of the bodyguards.

The bodyguard caught it instinctively, feeling the heavy weight in his hands, with cold liquid still seeping out.

He suspiciously peeled back a corner of the wrapping paper.

The next second, a terrified scream tore through the elegance of the banquet hall.

"Ah—it's Tony! That's Tony's head!"

The bodyguard's hand shook, and the box fell to the floor.

A tattooed head rolled out, rolling all the way to the center of the red carpet, its unclosed eyes staring directly at Old Gambino, who was sitting in the main seat.

The music stopped abruptly.

A deathly silence.

Dozens of guns were drawn simultaneously, their dark muzzles pointing at the two people at the door.

Richie's legs went weak, and he collapsed onto the floor.

Chen Mo, however, still stood there, even leisurely adjusting his cuffs.

"I don't like being pointed at by guns," he said indifferently.

"Kill him!" Old Gambino stood up from his armchair, his face, covered in age spots, twisted with rage. "Chop him up and feed him to the dogs!"

"Wait."

Chen Mo raised his hand, a black remote control appearing in his palm.

"Before I press this button, I suggest everyone listen to a recording. Especially you, Underboss Paul."

He pressed the play button.

A familiar voice suddenly blared from the banquet hall's surround sound speakers.

It was the voice of Underboss Paul Gambino, as clear as if he were speaking right in their ears.

"...Yes, Agent. The old man hid the ledger in the warehouse at Jersey Port... I know the route for that shipment... As long as you guarantee me immunity after I take over, I can hand over the entire list to you..."

A commotion erupted in the crowd.

All eyes instantly turned to Paul, who was standing beside Old Gambino.

Paul's face turned deathly pale instantly.

He suddenly drew his gun and pointed it at Chen Mo: "That's fake! It's synthesized! He's sowing discord! Kill him!"

"Whether it's fake or not, you know in your heart," Chen Mo's voice remained calm.

"The reason the IRS was able to raid your laundromat so precisely yesterday, and why the Health Department knew there were dead rats in the cold storage—wasn't that all your doing? Mr. Paul, the immunity agreement the FBI gave you is in my pocket right now. Do you want to see it?"

"You're lying!" Paul roared and pulled the trigger.

"Bang!"

The gun fired.

But it was not Chen Mo who fell.

Paul looked at his chest in disbelief, where a bloody hole had appeared.

He turned his head stiffly to see Old Gambino holding a still-smoking revolver.

"Father..."

"You animal." Old Gambino's hand was trembling, tears streaming down his wrinkles. "I gave you everything, yet you wanted to sell out this family."

Paul fell into a pool of blood, twitched twice, and then stopped moving.

The banquet hall descended into chaos.

Some screamed, some tried to flee, and those who had been loyal to Paul looked at each other, not knowing whom to point their guns at.

"Alright, family business is concluded."

Chen Mo stepped over the head on the floor, like an elegant gentleman, walking step by step toward the main seat.

The crowd automatically cleared a path for him, out of fear of the unknown.

He stopped three meters in front of Old Gambino, looking at this Godfather who had aged ten years in an instant.

"Mr. Gambino, my condolences." There was not a shred of sympathy in Chen Mo's voice. "However, the Godfather of the old era is dead, but business in the new era must continue."

"Who are you?" Old Gambino slumped in his chair, as if all his strength had been drained. "Which family are you from?"

"Who I am is not important."

Chen Mo took off the mask and tossed it onto the table, revealing his young and cold face.

He did not use the face belonging to the police officer Robert, but instead used the Thousand-Faced Deceiver to fine-tune his features, making him look both strange and dangerous.

"What's important is that from today on, the underground world of New York has new rules."

He turned around and pointed to Richie, who was still slumped at the door.

"That kid is named Richie. From now on, he will be responsible for coordinating the business in this district. All goods and all money must pass through his hands. We will take a ten percent cut."

"Ten percent?" a family elder couldn't help but shout. "Who do you think you are? The IRS?"

"No." Chen Mo smiled, a smile that made people's hair stand on end. "The IRS only wants money, but I want both money and lives."

He snapped his fingers.

The floor-to-ceiling windows of the banquet hall suddenly shattered.

"Crash—"

Countless red laser dots pierced through the rain, densely landing on the elder who had spoken up in opposition, as well as between the eyebrows of everyone who tried to raise a gun.

This was the manifested deterrence of the Asset Halo, although in reality, there weren't that many snipers outside—only a few temporary workers Jack had hired with laser pointers, and one sniper rifle belonging to Nightingale.

But in this atmosphere, no one dared to gamble.

"This is the rule of the Legacy."

Chen Mo walked up to that elder and helped him straighten his crooked tie.

"Now, who approves, and who opposes?"

A deathly silence descended once again.

Only Paul's blood spread slowly on the carpet, like a blooming spider lily.

Old Gambino closed his eyes and waved his hand as if resigning himself to fate.

"Give it to him."

Chen Mo nodded with satisfaction.

He walked over to Richie and yanked the still-shivering thug up.

"Stand straight," he whispered in Richie's ear. "From today on, you are the king here. Don't embarrass me."

Richie swallowed hard, watching those big shots who were usually high and mighty now bowing their heads before him.

An unprecedented ambition ignited in his eyes; it was the addiction brought by power.

"Yes... boss."

Chen Mo patted his shoulder and turned to walk toward the door.

In the banquet hall behind him, a new order was being established upon the corpses.

And Chen Mo knew, this was merely the beginning.

The night in New York was long, and his web had only just begun to spread.